My eyes are not celestial suns of light But pools reflecting woods mossed green and brown. The common lip not coral like by sight But pale as mine, and pink-soft as a gown. If ******* be white, no woman’s wheat compares. And women who place roses in fair cheeks Win heavenly false prize of golden hairs. My breath, like all who path to heaven seek, Resembles no scent floral nor my sound An avian tune rather my words be sweet. ‘Tis true my feet do grace the common ground Though none I know descended to our heat. I think my beauty worthy yet and rare To covet not mock by poets unfair.
This poem is an imperfect attempt at iambic pentameter in response to Shakespeare's Sonnet 130. Please comment! I would love to hear feedback both positive and critical.